DISCLAIMER: Grey's Anatomy and its characters are the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Cristina Considers
By BadTyler
If I'm going to make it through the rest of this shift, I'm going to need a hell of a lot more coffee. Right now, I'm grateful to have the on call room to myself, because I need the privacy and the time to think. But whenever I try to put it all in some kind of coherent order, the logical part of my brain shuts down and I think about you. About us. Tangled and sweaty in the bedroom. Calm and impervious in the lecture hall. Out of control, the door safely locked in your office. Polite and professional in the lab. You see—that's why I'm so damn good at this game. You taught it to me. I let Burke think that it was something I picked up from him.
It's hard—no, impossible not to think about you. Ever since I arrived here yesterday morning with Burke's customary goodbye kiss still warming my lips, since I walked out of the elevator and saw you there in front of the board, it's as if we'd never been apart. The body does not lie: try though we may to hide it. My body remembers yours; I know it as well as I know my own. I have memories that are as vivid as if the events took place yesterday.
Everyone thinks I'm in here studying: boning up on cardiothoracic procedures, hoping to be the lucky intern, the chosen one, the one who's first to work with you, to impress you with my skill. That's probably what I should be doing. Instead, I'm gulping coffee and scribbling these thoughts in a notebook no one will ever see. I'm not very trusting, or maybe just plain smart enough not to leave something like this lying around. Meredith and Izzie both have the combination to my locker, and so does Burke. When I'm done here, I'll rip out these pages and burn them.
The other interns know about you, but they only know what I chose to tell them. I'm not like Meredith or Izzie. Even Alex shows a softer side, but not me. I don't gush and I don't spill my guts, not to them, not to anyone, not even the man I plan to marry. Why don't they learn that it's best to keep some things from the light of day? That's something George needs to learn, too. Sooner or later, the house of cards he's built with Callie is going to fall—and it's going to fall so fast and so hard, he'll never know what hit him.
But you—Dr. Colyn Marlow? You will be safely confined to this notebook, because I've got that control. The control that I learned from you. Damn it. My pager's going off. No surprise that it's you, paging me. For now, this will have to go under the mattress.
Several hours later.
This coffee is starting to taste like crap. There isn't a muscle left in my body that isn't aching. Not from the long and complicated surgery, but from what we just did in that empty supply closet. You took the lead, and as always, I followed you. I'm going to have fingerprint bruises on my thighs, but so will you. I had forgotten certain details: your strength, your agility and your special talent for making me come. You even managed to make me beg for more. All you have to do is run your hands down my body and I'm no longer Cristina Yang, the most promising student in my class. I'm like a stray cat in heat and that's exactly the way you want me. You can close your eyes and use your fingers to diagnose precisely which slight movement will make me so crazy that I no longer care if someone hears me. And you take those same fingers, placing them over my lips, reminding me that I have to be quiet, while tasting myself on your hands, tasting you on my tongue. You ripped my panties, but I'm no dolt, the way Meredith was. I've already tossed them into a HAZMAT container. Hazmat. Hazardous materials. You. Us.
Colyn, go back to California. Take your British accent and your amazing breasts and your mile-long legs and your dark, curly hair and leave. Take away those brown eyes that look into mine and see me more clearly than anyone else does. Do it now, before this goes any farther. Before anyone gets hurt. I'm no longer sure of anything. Marry Burke? I don't know. Be your lover again, your student—your toy—and give up my hard-won reputation for withholding emotion, for grace under pressure? I don't know.
More coffee. The sun is starting to come up. Not much longer, and I can go home. Or I can go with you. Either way, I'm not looking back. And now the door is opening. It's going to be you.
Oh, God. It's Bailey.
But still… I can't stop thinking about you.
It's you, because it always has been you, all along. Or am I deluding myself into believing it?
And yet… they say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
I wonder just how true that will turn out to be.
I'm going to go now and burn these pages.
After that? I'm not sure. Me, Cristina Yang, not sure? Hell just froze over.
The End